Before long, dinner was ready.
Four dishes and a soup. Every single one, my favorite.
Ethel served me a bowl of rice and was just about to sit down and eat with me when her phone rang.
She picked up, and her brow furrowed instantly.
"Okay. I'm on my way."
She hung up, yanked off her apron, and turned to me with urgency written across her face.
"Honey, there's an emergency patient at the hospital. I'm the only one who can operate. I have to go."
She grabbed her car keys, pressed a soft kiss to my forehead, and hurried out the door.
The moment it closed, the apartment fell silent.
I sat at the dining table, staring at the spread of food in front of me. I had no appetite.
The content of that post was lodged in my brain like a splinter I couldn't pull free.
Everything Ethel said, everything she did—none of it was wrong.
But something felt off.
I set down my chopsticks. Stood up. And as if pulled by some force I couldn't name, I walked into the bedroom.
Everything was immaculate. Ethel had made the bed with military precision, the corners tucked tight. At a glance, nothing was out of place.
But the more perfect it looked, the more uneasy I felt.
I started searching. Carefully. Methodically.